


Cold and Broken

by Colette_Capricious



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, In A Long Time, M/M, Season/Series 09
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-22
Updated: 2014-02-22
Packaged: 2018-01-13 08:40:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,975
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1219795
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Colette_Capricious/pseuds/Colette_Capricious
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Love is not a victory march. Especially for the Winchesters.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold and Broken

Sam has only been face down in the water for a few seconds. 30 seconds. A minute, tops. He’s fine. Fine. Dean’s sure of it.

Dean’s hand is so cold, almost too cold to bend around the trigger. But he forces his fingers to close and pull. A shotgun blast to get the fucker off his brother, and he sprinkles the magic oil or whatever the hell Sam said would kill this thing on the bones. There’s the smell of gasoline and the feel of the lighter wheel against his palms, and the spirit disappears into a cascade of sparks.

It was too close that time. Too close. Fucking water spirit, fucking cold. 

Dean rolls Sam out of the freezing river, into the muddy snow at the banks. _C’mon, c’mon. Be breathing._ Sam’s skin is like ice, or maybe Dean’s hand has finally lost all feeling. He presses his fingers under Sam’s jaw, on the pulse of his throat, calling his name over and over, like his voice can guide Sam back into consciousness.

He might have to let Sammy die if that what he wants, but Dean doesn’t think he meant Dean should let him drown in six inches of water. Or die of hypothermia. Even Sam would have to agree with that. Not that Dean gives two shits what Sam thinks now. Besides, Dean never promised he would do it. He’s not sure he can do it. He knows for sure there’s a difference between shoving an angel into someone and a little bit of CPR. 

_I swear to god,_ Dean swears at the Sam in his head, _if you bitch about this, I will kill you myself_.

Maybe there’s a flutter of a pulse under his numb fingers, maybe Sam’s chest is moving up and down. The full moon throws blue light and dark shadows across the snow, over Sam’s too-still face. Dean bends down, puts mouth right over Sam’s cold, cold lips. Cold, but not blue, not yet. Dean can feel Sam’s breath warm against his mouth, see it curl ever so slightly into the freezing night air. “Christ, Sam. You fucking scared me.” Dean fingers are white-knuckled on Sam’s sodden jacket. He shakes Sam roughly. “C’mon. Wake up. Sam.” Louder, gruffer. Sam.” He forces his stiff fingers to unbend, to let go of the cloth. A couple of quick slaps to Sam’s cheeks earns him a soft moan and the slightest fluttering of eyelids.

“Sammy?” Dean cups Sam’s face with both hands, gently, like he could break. “You there, little brother?” He caresses the sharp cheekbones with his thumb, fingers curling behind the curve of Sam’s jaw. “C’mon, talk to me.”

Sam moans a little more, coughs hard. Dean turns Sam’s head to the side and a thin stream of water trickles from his mouth. Dean rolls him to his side and Sam’s body is wracked with coughing. He curls in on himself as his lungs force out the water. Dean rubs Sam’s back, helpless, as he struggles for breath.

Eventually the coughing slows and Sam drags in a ragged breath. He collapses onto his back with a sigh. He’s trying to talk but his teeth are chattering too hard. “C-c-c-old,” he forces out. 

Dean is already pulling him up, shoving his arms under Sam’s and wrapping him into a tight hug. . “Yeah, I know. Fucking freezing out here,” Dean says. Sam might be healed and grace-free, but he’s nowhere near full fighting weight, let alone the Greek-god body Robo-Sam built up. He’s way too thin for Dean’s liking. He feels less substantial somehow, like he hasn’t come fully back from this most recent brush with death. He wraps Sam’s arms around his shoulders and walks backwards, half-dragging Sam towards the car. Sam tries to help, taking one stumbling step for every three of Dean’s. His face is like ice where it’s pressed against Dean’s neck.

Dean thumps against the car. He slides them over so he can open the front passenger’s side door. “In you go,” he says, manhandling Sam’s boneless body into the seat. Sam’s canvas jacket is starting to harden from the cold, so Dean pulls and tugs it off Sam as he slides into his usual spot. All Sam can manage is mumbled complaints. “Hold on, you big baby,” Dean chides, shutting the door.

He walks behind the car and opens the trunk. He stows the shotgun carelessly and digs around the bottom until he finds their old spare blanket. A quick pawing through his duffle produces a zippered hoodie, socks, and some sweatpants. It feels odd to have clothes in the trunk, strange to be living on the road again. And yet it feels inevitable. He was getting soft in the bunker anyway, thinking things might actually, well, _not_ end sad or bloody. At least for Sam. Stupid. Ain’t no rest for the wicked, and he’s as wicked as they come. Now he’s marked for the whole world to see. Only fitting. Dean’s often thought he should come with a warning label.

He lets the trunk drop closed with a heavy thud. Through the back window, Dean can see Sam’s head curled down where he sits hunched over, fighting the pain or trying to get warm or both.

Dean slides in the behind the wheel and starts the car. It hasn’t been that long since they got here, ten, fifteen minutes at the most. For a Winchester, that’s more than enough time to almost die. But not long enough to completely freeze the engine block. They should have heat in a few minutes. “Here,” he says, shoving the blanket and clean clothes over to Sam.

Sam struggles with the wet denim, lifting his hips up to peel the jeans off his legs. His boxers go with the jeans and Sam kicks them both off towards the floor. His skin is pale in the moonlight, muscles in stark relief as he shifts and twists to pull the sweatpants up over damp legs in the tight space. Something clenches in Dean at the sight of Sam’s pale, cold skin. He remembers Sam from long ago. Sam with miles of golden skin, tan even in winter, like he carried the sun with him.

The shirts hit the floor with a splat and Dean sweeps his torso with a glance, automatically checking for injuries. There was a time he would have reached over and put his hands on Sam’s body, moving and turning him despite Sam’s grumbled _I’m fine, Dean_. He doesn’t have that right anymore. Doesn’t have the right to anything of Sam’s now – his body, his trust, his love, his presence, his life. Still, Dean wants to reach over and lay his hand on Sam’s side, to slot his fingers into where the ribs press close to the skin. Sam slips his arm through the sweatshirt and zips it up, hiding himself away from Dean’s gaze. 

The pants are too small, stopping a few inches above his ankles. The sweatshirt fits, but it was probably Sam’s to start with. Dean mocks the hoodies, but he always ends up with at least one in his bag. Sam drags the blanket over him and slumps back against the seat, head propped up against the window. 

The engine rumbles strong and steady. Dean feels a faint wash of warm air, so he turns the blower up high, and angles all the vents towards Sam. The fan sounds like a jet engine, and the legos that Dean has stuffed back into the vents every time he’s rebuilt the goddamn car rattle noisily. It’s part of the lullaby of their childhood and Dean closes his eyes and just breathes. They’re both alive again for the moment. For what it’s worth.

Dean figures it’s not worth a lot to Sam right now. He thinks about Cain and Kevin and Crowley and wonders why it’s worth anything to him. He rubs the mark on his arm and thinks about Abbadon and the price John paid for a lifetime of revenge. The price he and Sam are still paying. He lets himself think about Ben and Lisa (still thankfully alive, he keeps tabs on them). He reviews the worn list of the deaths on his hands and for a minute he envies the dead.

“I get it, you know. I do,” he says into the night, not looking at Sam. His breath condenses on the inside of the windshield.

Sam says something Dean can’t hear. Dean reaches out and turns the fan down to somewhere below hurricane level. He looks over at Sam, but Sam still has his face turned into the window. He wants to ask Sam what he said but he’s afraid to hear it. He has to know this one thing though, has to know what he’s supposed to do. How he’s supposed to do this. He clears his throat. “Was, was that okay?” Sam turns to him, eyes still glassy, uncomprehending. Dean wonders what Sam has been thinking. He keeps going before his courage fails him. “I mean, what I did, just now? Pulling you out. Is that okay? I …was I supposed to –“

Sam is shaking his head like he can’t believe Dean. “Dean. It’s not like that. God, I - Do you really think I want you to let me drown in some river?”

“You’d let me.” Dean can’t hold back the bitterness.

“Jesus, Dean! No. That’s not - ” Sam sighs, pulls the blanket tighter around him. “Is that what you heard?”

Dean knows his face is stone. “It’s what you said. That if it were me that was dying, you wouldn’t save me.”

Sam looks stricken. If Dean had thought he looked pale before, now his face was paper-white, blue shadows under his eyes and cheekbones. “Why are we so fucking _bad_ at this?” he asks helplessly.

Dean barks a humorless laugh. “Almost dying? I’d say we’re goddamn experts at it.”

Sam slicks back his wet hair with both hands, the blanket slipping to his waist. “Talking, Dean. It’s like I can never get the words out right. Can’t put my thoughts into words you can hear.”

“I heard it pretty damn well. You don’t trust me, you wouldn’t save me, and you don’t want me to save you because you have big damn death wish.” Dean wishes he _hadn’t_ heard that, but he did.

“I don’t want –“ Sam stops and turns away from Dean. He flings the car door open, stumbling out into the freezing air, blanket and wet clothes tangling around his feet as he does. 

_Fuck_ Dean’s out of the car and around the other side by the time Sam has extricated himself fully. The edge of the blanket is caught in the door. Dean reaches around Sam and opens the door. Sam yanks the blanket out and wraps it around himself.

Dean keeps his hand on the door handle, trapping Sam against the vibrating metal. “You don’t want what? To die of hypothermia? Because this is a fucking stupid way to prove it.”

Sam tries to push Dean away without letting go of the blanket. It doesn’t work very well. The way he keeps shifting from foot to foot as the cold ground leaches the heat from his feet isn’t helping either. He changes tactics and grabs Dean’s shirt, pulling him close. “I don’t want to die,” he growls into Dean’s face. 

Dean bites his lip and turns away, runs his hand through his hair and turns back. Sam is glaring at him, hand still fisted in Dean’s shirt. It’s not the petulant glare of a teenager, or even the helpless anger of the kid Dean dragged away from Stanford. This is the look that had been in Sam’s eyes the night he met Benny, the same look Dean remembers from the honeymoon suite of a hotel a lifetime ago. This is Sam taking a stand. He may not want to die, but he is _willing_ to die for whatever point he is trying to make. Dean wishes to an absent god that he knew what is was. He’s got to give it another try. “Well, what the hell do you want, Sam? Because I’m not getting it.”

“A choice, Dean. That’s all.” He deflates, lets go of Dean’s shirt. He smoothes the wrinkled front. “Just. I want to get to choose what happens to me for once.”

Dean knows he must look confused. All Sam’s ever done is exactly what he’s wanted. No one can talk him into or out of anything. 

Sam sighs. “I want to choose. Free will, Dean. What else were we fighting for Before?”

Dean’s eyes flicker across Sam’s face, trying to get a read on him. He used to know all of Sam’s expression, know the faces he was making even with his back to Dean. Now he can’t tell even standing three inches from him. “Free will,” he parrots.

Sam frowns, brows drawn tight together. “Even…” He stops and his face softens, all the lines smoothing out, except the vertical line between his brows. 

Dean knows that look. Sammy’s going to say something he knows will hurt Dean. Dean braces for it, but doesn’t stop him.

Sam gathers the blanket in one hand, keeping it wrapped around him. He touches Dean’s face, palm surprisingly warm on Dean’s skin. His hand slips down to cup Dean’s neck, and he pulls their foreheads together. “Dean,” he says.

Dean reaches up to grip Sam’s hand on the wrist, holding him there. If this is goodbye again, he wants all he can get. 

Sam butts Dean’s forehead gently then pulls away, hand on Dean’s shoulder now. “Dean, when Lucifer…when I let him.”

Dean tries to pull away but Sam holds him in an iron grip.

“When…I let him in. He showed me, he had all these people around him. Demons. In meat suits. And, and...I knew them. All of them.”

“He let demons possess your friends?” Who? Dean wondered, trying to remember any friends of Sam.

“No. No, that’s just it. Don’t you see?” Sam bites his lips, searching for the right words. Dean waits him out. “I didn’t have friends. They weren’t real. Demons. Following me since birth. Influencing me, keeping me angry. Friends, teachers, dates. All of it. Brady and Jess. All of it. I’ve been a puppet since birth.” 

Sam’s hand is digging into Dean’s neck and there’s going to be bruises, but Dean has his wrist just as tightly. He doesn’t want to think about this shit, about then, about now, about any of it. But if Sam had to live it, then Dean can sure as shit hear it. “Jesus, Sammy.”

Sam shakes his head, exhales long and slow, hand loosening and sliding away. He starts to speak again but Dean holds up a hand to forestall any more explanation. There’s something there. Something Dean almost gets. He looks up at the crystal clear night sky. The stars scattered across the black look hard enough to cut glass. “So, Azazel. Jerking your chain.”

Sam nods, vapor trails of breath streaming from his nose and mouth. “He was the first.”

Dean can feel Sam’s breath on his face. “Castiel pulling you out? Leaving your soul behind.” He looks up to meet Sam’s eyes. They’re full of old pain and compassion. An expression Dean sees far too often in Sammy’s face. But this time it’s different. The compassion is for _Dean_ now. And Dean can’t deal with that.

“And me,” he says harshly. “Me, putting your soul back. You didn’t want it.”

Sam winces, but shakes his head. “I didn’t. I mean I know …” He trails off. It’s old ground, and painful. 

“But I did it. And Gadreel,” he says. “I decided that, too.”

Dean pictures the drops of demon blood dripping from Azazel into infant Sam’s mouth, the fear and desperation in Sam’s face when it seemed the madness from his devil-ravaged soul was going to kill him, and it hits him like a punch from a wendigo, all the things that have been _done_ to Sam. He staggers a little under the weight of this revelation. The adrenaline let down is sucking all the strength from his body, and it’s only Sam grabbing him and swinging him around to lean against the car that stops him from just sitting down in the snow.

 _Snow_. He’s looking down at snow and the way it’s creeping up to the bare inches of skin between the tops of Sam’s socks and bottom of his sweatpants. That he can do something about. “So,” he clears his throat, “Are you _choosing_ to lose a few toes to frostbite or do you want to get back in the car?” He points down at Sam’s feet.

Sam looks down and back up with the faintest hint of a smile. “Back in the car.” 

The inside of the car is even warmer now. It feels like heaven as Dean slides in behind the wheel. He doesn’t caress it, despite what Sam thinks. He just like the way it feels sliding beneath his palms. It’s comforting, his hands have molded to it over the years. Just like his whole self has been molded since childhood into something that only exists to keep Sam alive. Keep him safe. 

Sam shifts around in the seat, aiming the vents towards his feet. “So. Now do you get it? Is it so hard to see that maybe at the very least, I want to be able to choose if I live or die?”

Dean grips the steering wheel, rests his head on the thin plastic. “I’m sorry, Sam. So sorry.” He doesn’t look over to where Sam sits, grimacing as he pulls off the wet socks. “I’m sorry I’m not strong enough to let you die.”

Sam sits up and turns to face Dean. “You did it once,” he says carefully, so carefully. 

Dean squeezes his eyes shut, hands clenching, white-knuckled around the steering wheel. “Never…” His voice cracks. He can’t help it. That image is forever burned into every cell of him. Sam’s face, the look on his face, as he spread his arms and fell. Fell into hell. “Never again,” he says roughly.

“It saved the world, Dean.” He pulls the blanket tightly around him, shivering, despite the hot air blasting from the vents. 

Dean remembers Sam telling him that Lucifer was cold. Cold like the spaces between the stars. Sam yelps as Dean grabs his leg and yanks it up onto the seat, forcing Sam to twist his back to the door. Dean pulls his other leg up and drops Sam’s feet into his lap. The toes are like ice as Dean rubs them between his hands to warm them. 

“Fuck the world,” he spits out. “I stopped caring about the world the second you fell backwards into that pit, Sam.” He curls down to blow hot breath onto Sam’s feet. ‘’It can burn for all I care. And heaven and the angels can go fuck themselves, too. So, yeah, sue me. I would rather have you alive and hell open for business. I’d rather see the all the angels in heaven fall that watch you sacrifice yourself again.” And that doesn’t sound healthy even in his head but really, who give a fuck? Who is even alive anymore that has the right to judge them? No one. _You don’t have any friends, Dean. Your friends are all dead._. Sammy had said that to him, not too long ago.

Clouds are moving in, and the wind blows them quickly across the face of the moon. Broad stripes of light and darkness glide up their bodies, across the seats. The light illuminates Sam’s face as he stares at Dean. Darkness creeps in and Sam slips lower down the door, hooking his legs over Dean’s and pulling him closer. Dean scoots willingly, pulling the blanket up and wrapping it around Sam’s legs and feet.

Sam tilts his head towards the instrument panel. “How’s the gas?”

Dean checks quickly. “Almost full. First rule, never go on a job with –“

“An empty tank,” Sam finishes. “Yeah, I know.”

It’s almost too hot in the car now, with Sam and the blanket draped over him. Dean turns down the fan another notch and it hums quietly. The windows are fogged, the diffused moonlight filling the car with a blue glow. It feels like nothing else is real but them. Dean wants to just stay in this moment for a while. For a day, for forever. Just stop time. He knows damn well Sam’s not the only Winchester with a death wish. 

Sam wiggles his foot, poking Dean in the ribs. “Hey.” 

Dean opens his eyes and looks at Sam.

“In my head, when Gadreel - you- I don’t know who it was, was trying to get me to say yes…” Sam starts.

Hearing Sam say it flat out like that, Dean is slammed into the memory of a different angel trying to get Sammy to say yes. Goddamn him again. Lucifer has wound himself so tightly around their lives, minds, and souls that he wonders sometimes if both of them are actually still in their own special hells. But _fuck_ , he gets it. He really gets it, how he fucked up this time. He tries to find the words to explain, but Sam stops him. 

“No, let me finish.” He leans up puts a hand on Dean’s chest. “He said, and I thought it was you, he said, ‘There ain’t no me if there ain’t no you.’”

Dean covers his face with his hand, slides it down until he’s looking at Sam over the edge of it, only his eyes visible. “Sam, you, you gotta know that’s true. That’s right from my brain, man. I know it’s wrong and it’s twisted but, Sammy, man, it’s the only thing I know. My whole job is to keep you safe. And when .. I know, I know what’s healthy, I should live for myself, blah blah. But goddamn, Sam, I’ve been living on borrowed time since that crossroads deal. I’ve been more dead than alive for years.” 

Sam reaches up and pulls Dean’s hands away from his face. Dean grips Sam’s bent knees, won’t look up. Sam slides a hand around the back of his neck, pulls their foreheads together again. Eyes closed, Dean shakes his head, back and forth rolling against Sam, denying something Sam hasn’t said yet. 

Sam’s hand tightens on Dean’s neck and he’s going to have bruises for there for sure. “Don’t die,” Sam whispers against Dean’s face. He nudges Dean’s head up with his oversized head, pulls him impossibly closer with his giant hand and kisses Dean on the mouth. It’s soft and gentle but definitely not brotherly. 

Dean’s arm tightens around Sam’s knees, and he keeps his eyes closed and lets Sam kiss him. Once, twice. 

“Don’t die,” Sam says again, voice urgent, breath hot against Dean. 

He kisses Dean again, more pressure this time, and Dean feels the soft insides of Sam’s lips as he pulls away with a barely-there nip at Dean’s mouth. “Don’t die for me, Dean.”

The harsh bark of a laugh surprises them both. He grabs Sam’s hair with both his hands, shakes his head back and forth, a wry grin for his impossible, indescribably brave, stupid brother. “You idiot. You’re the only thing I’ve ever died for.”

Dean sees the heat flare in Sam’s eyes before the clouds scudding across the sky plunge the car into darkness. Then it’s just the faint illumination of the dashboard light and Sam’s hands hard and insistent on his shoulders pulling him down, down.

Sam’s got one leg up against the seat, one on the floor, one hand on Dean’s head and one worming its way under Dean’s shirt. Dean’s got a hip wedged against the steering wheel, a deathgrip on the dashboard, and a Meatloaf song running through his head. “Sam,” Dean forces through dry throat.

Sam pushes Dean up a bare inch, whips the blanket from between them and stuffs it on the floor with his wet clothes. He pulls Dean down on top of him.

He not cold anymore, Dean notices. The only way he can keep from crushing Sam completely is to wedge one hand between Sam and the seat, and brace himself on the pile of wet clothes with the other. He has no idea what to say. It’s not like this - or something like this - hadn’t made an appearance in his fantasies more than a few times. And there were...incidents...over the years. But they had been kids with no-one else around, nowhere to direct the burning need of adolescence. And then Sammy left for Stanford. Okay, so maybe they hadn’t been just kids then. Maybe they had known what they were doing. But that was a long time ago.

There was the night before Sam said yes. But that was about things that could never be said in words. That was them clinging to each other and tears and kisses and fear and love. This feels different. This isn’t that. Dean’s not sure what this is. “Sam?”

Sam’s voice is soft in Dean’s ear and Dean can barely concentrate with Sam’s hand warm and heavy on his back, fingertips rubbing, nails scratching lightly. “There was always one thing I knew was mine alone. That came from me, that was what I wanted. I knew it because no one else would ever want it for me.”

He lifts his head from where it rests against the window and kisses Dean again. It's long and deep this time, and Dean opens gladly for Sam when he bites and licks his way into Dean’s mouth. It feels like heaven.

 _Huh. Heaven._ Maybe they’re not still in hell. Maybe they’re dead, or he’s dead, and this is heaven. But this is not a memory, this never ever happened. But the angels fell, so maybe heaven is different now. He pulls away from Sam reluctantly, keeping a hand on Sam’s chest. “Are we dead?”

Sam’s brow furrows and then Dean sees his concentration focus inward. It’s not a total impossibility after all. Not like it would be the first time. “I don’t think so,” he answers. He slides his hand down the back of Dean’s jeans and digs his fingers into the muscle. “Does it matter?”

And he’s right. It doesn’t matter. If they’re dead and this heaven? Well it certainly kicks the last heaven’s ass. If they’re not dead, then there is a lot of shit they’re going to have to deal with, including the fallout from wherever this is headed, but they always have shit to deal with. Judging from the exploring Sam’s hands are doing and the way his mouth is biting and licking hot and wet and perfect up the side of Dean’s neck, Dean has a fairly good idea where this is headed. “Don’t matter at all,” he answers, letting his weight drop back down onto Sam.

It’s beyond frustrating in the too-small space. Sam thrusts up against Dean, looking for friction and slams his knee into the steering wheel. Dean shifts down to find his brother’s mouth again, and his hand slips into the pile of icy wet clothing on the floor. “Shit,” he says, yanking his hand up and almost hitting Sam in the nose.

Sam just laughs, a bright happy sound Dean hasn’t heard in forever. He pushes at Dean’s shoulders, pushing him back as Sam sits up. It would help if Dean could stop kissing him, but that’s not going to happen anytime soon. “Back seat,” he says into Dean’s mouth.

That stops the kissing. “I’m not opening that door again. I’m not going out there. Even for you.”

Sam punches him. “Go over the seat, jerk.”

Dean eyes the gap between the top of the seat and the ceiling of the car warily. It looks a lot smaller than the last time he’d climbed over it. Sam’s hand covers the bulge in his jeans and squeezes, and Dean moans.

“Come on, old man. Get in the back seat and let me have my way with you.” Sam’s grin is evil. His eyes drop to where his hand slides up and down Dean’s jeans. He licks licks and bites at his bottom lip. 

_Okay, that works._ Dean slides on his stomach over the back of the seat. His foot shoots out, slamming into the steering wheel and laying on the horn. Laughing loudly now, Sam pushes him the rest of the way and he lands on his side on the bench seat with an thud.

Dean rolls his eyes. “Just get back here.” He kicks off his shoes as Sam slithers over the seat. When most of his front is over - Damn, Sammy is long - Dean grabs him and slides him the rest of the way. They’re face to face now, Dean on his back, Sam on top of him. 

There is still not enough room, really. Dean’s legs are sprawled oddly and Sam’s knees are bent, feet to the ceiling like a teenage girl on her bed. It’s perfect.

They don’t talk now. It starts out sweet and warm as they relearn each other, getting to know the grown men they are now. They kiss until their lips are swollen and red, hands roaming under clothes, over every inch of skin they can reach, cataloging differences and relearning the familiar.

The sound of Sam popping the button and sliding down the zipper of Dean’s jeans is still the same. Dean groans at the feel of Sam’s hand on him over his boxers. He’s already lost his overshirt, and Sam pushes at t-shirt until Dean gets the hint and pulls it over his head, joining Sam’s on the ground.

He slides his hands into the back of Sam’s sweatpants and pulls them together. He can feel Sam, as hard as he is, pressing against him. Sam’s up on his hands, looking down between their bodies where they fit together. His hair curtains either side of his face, brushing against Dean’s cheeks. “Dean,” he whispers.

Dean pushes the hair behind Sam’s ear and Sam looks up at him. Even in the dark, Dean can see everything in Sam’s face. Past, present, and future. There isn’t a word for what they were to each other, so Dean has to use the only one they’ve ever had. “Everything okay, little brother?”

“Yeah.” It comes out a little breathlessly. Might have something to do with the way Dean is rolling his hips up against Sam’s. “You?” He pushes down with a particularly wicked shimmy and thrust of his own.

Everything is shit and it’s terrifying, nothing new there. But maybe he and Sam are finally on the same page. “Fantastic.” 

Okay, there has to be more naked. Now. He tugs Sam’s hoodie up to his armpits and Sam grabs the hood and pulls it over his head. Dean pushes Sam’s sweatpants down to his knees in one smooth move. Sam, because he’s smart like that, kicks them the rest of the way off. It takes a team effort, but they manage to get Dean’s jeans off, too.

“Jesus,” Sam whispers as they slide against each other. “Jesus.”

Dean would agree, if he could speak. All he can do is breathe and clench Sam’s back and ass and pull him tight against him. He pushes his hips up and up while Sam rolls over him like the sea. Dean mouths every inch of Sam he can reach, wanting to relearn the taste of him. He needs to memorize every bit of Sam in case this never happens again. He sets his teeth into the skin over Sam’s collarbone and bites and sucks until Sam is whining and scrabbling at Dean’s shoulders and back.

“Dean, fuck, Dean.” Sam is leaning back now, one huge hand keeping Dean’s mouth on his body. As if Dean was going to stop. With one hand on Dean’s thigh, Sam pulls him around and, with a move Dean is going to have to analyze later, ends up sitting up with Dean straddling his hips. 

Sam’s hands cradle Dean’s face as he slams their mouths together. They kiss until Dean can’t take it anymore. Sam’s cock is a hard, hot line, pressing into Dean’s abdomen. Dean’s been hard so long he feels like he’s going to need medical help. He pulls away with a groan, almost changing his mind at the amazing whimpering sound Sam makes. 

“Fuck, Sam. God.” He leans back against the front seat, panting, arms outstretched. His legs are bent under him on either side of Sam’s hips, his body making a long arch away from Sam. The clouds pick that moment to part and moonlight suffuses through the fogged windows. 

Sam’s eyes glitter black as he reaches out and touches Dean reverently, drawing his hand down Dean’s body from throat to aching cock. He wraps those long fingers around it and Dean can’t take it anymore. “Jesus, Sam. Just fuck me already.” He needs to feel Sam inside him, needs to feel that connection. 

“Yeah, yeah.” Sam can’t stop touching Dean, hands roaming up and down his torso, his legs, his cock, his throat. “God, yes.”

Dean fumbles one arm behind him, grasping blindly for his jacket. He’s pretty sure it got tossed in the front seat. _Bingo._ He drags it over the seat back and digs blindly through the pockets. Sam keeps dragging his hand lightly up and down Dean’s cock and it’s really not helping. Dean breathes a prayer of thanks when his hand closes over the bottle of consecrated oil. How blasphemous is it, he wonders, to use blessed oil to have gay sex with your brother? He finds he doesn’t give a fuck as he thrusts the bottle towards Sam. “Here.”

Sam proves again how smart he is and pours some into his hand. “Move,” he orders, pushing Dean back a little. Sam slinks down on the seat, his ass right on the edge. He spreads his legs as he does, forcing Dean’s open. Sam wastes no time in getting his hand underneath Dean. 

Dean shudders as Sam’s fingers brush in and over, tracing little circle against Dean’s skin. He pushes down, trying to get what he needs. Sam’s fingertip slips in and they both moan. It feels good, but it’s not nearly enough. “More. C’mon, Sam. More.”

Sam grips Dean tightly around the waist, shifts his grip and slides a second finger in. “Fuck, Dean. So hot.”

Dean’s head falls back and he grips the top of the seatback tightly as he just rides Sam’s hand. He really wants to touch Sam, to get a hand on that huge cock, to drive Sam as crazy as he is making Dean. If he just shifts, just a bit. With a herculean effort, he lifts his head up and lunges forward. He groans as the move forces Sam’s hand deeper inside. This is going to be over before it starts if they don’t move the plot forward. He braces one hand on Sam’s shoulder, and wraps the other around him. Sam is hot and wet and perfect. Dean’s hand slides easily up and down. “I’m not some delicate flower, Sammy,” he growls into Sam’s ear. He bites at the lobe and Sam shudders. “Fuck me. Now.”

Sam pulls his fingers out quickly and Dean hisses. He rises up on his knees. Sam slicks up and holds himself steady. 

Sam looks where there bodies are touching, watching Dean slide down, and suddenly Dean needs to see Sam’s face. Needs to see that this is affecting him as much as it affecting Dean. Needs to know that he’s not alone in this. Dean grabs Sam’s hair, forcing his head up. His hands are shaking and he knows his eyes are wide as he comes to rest on Sam’s thighs. Sam is huge and hard and he swears he can feel Sam’s heart beating inside him. 

Sam’s eyes are huge and liquid dark. He looks almost scared, and Dean feels Sam’s hands trembling on his waist. “Dean,” he breathes. “God, Dean.”

Dean cards his hands roughly but tenderly through Sam’s hair. “Yeah. Yeah, Sammy. I got you.” He can’t help it, he has to move. “Come on, come on,” he chants, moving as much as he can in the confined space. It’s not nearly enough for either of them. Sam thrusts up and Dean tries to lift but he can’t get it hard and deep like he really wants. He wants to feel this for days. It’s the only way he’ll believe it really happened.

Sam must be feeling the same way. He pulls Dean closer, holding him still, and sucking marks into the thin skin of his neck and throat. Dean can’t stop the breathless sounds coming out of his mouth as he presses Sam’s mouth harder against him and grinds down on Sam’s cock, circling his hips to feel Sam everywhere. 

God, it’s a fucking furnace in the car now. Sam’s dick is rubbing steadily against him, shooting sparks up his spine, and his mouth and teeth keep him right on the edge of pain and pleasure. Then it all stops as Sam pulls away and lifts Dean off of his lap.

“Turn around, Dean. God, turn around,” Sam begs before Dean can even get his brain together enough to protest. “I got to...just...” And he shoves and pulls until Dean is bent over the front seat, legs spread across Sam’s thighs. He’s not quite sitting and he’s not quite standing. It would be uncomfortable, awkward, except for the way Sam manages to get one knee up on the seat, one foot braced on the floor and just starts driving into Dean.

“Holy fuck,” Dean yells, then grips the seat back. Sam’s got one hand on Dean’s shoulder and one on his hip. Sam just keeps pounding. The car creaks as it moves up and down with their rhythm. Dean thinks he hears apologies mixed in with Sam’s groans and curses, but he’ll be damned if he can think of one thing Sam should be sorry about. He’s the one who should be sorry.

The pleasure is building, ratcheting tighter and tighter and Sam is just so strong and alive behind him. And free, it’s just Sam doing this. Of his own free will. Because he loves Dean and because this thing between them has always belonged to just them. And Dean is so so sorry. As Sam’s fingers tighten on Dean, the unbearable pleasure uncoils up his spine and he can’t hold back. “I’m sorry, Sammy. God, so sorry,” he gasps with each breath that is punched out of him. “Fuck. Sam.” 

Sam’s nails scratch lines down his back as he struggles for purchase on Dean’s sweat-slicked skin. “Dean...god. Dean.” It’s all Sam can seem to say.

Dean’s body pulls tight, arching off the seat as he comes. Sam’s arm is an iron-band across his chest and he can’t breathe as his orgasm shatters through him. Sam groans long and low and Dean feels him get pulled over into his orgasm as well.

After they get their breath back, after the half-assed clean up, and the kisses that are sweeter than anyone would imagine they could be between these two battle-scarred men, Dean ends stretched out between his brother’s legs, back against his chest. They’ve fished the blanket up out of the front footwell and Dean pulls it up over them. 

Sam reaches back to roll down the window the barest inch. An icy breeze brushes the back of Dean’s neck. “Are you insane, dude? It’s like no degrees out there. Shut the window.”

Sam drops a kiss on Dean’s head and blithely ignores him. “I’m not dying from carbon monoxide poisoning and having someone find us naked.”

“Aw, Sam. I know you’re a little scrawny and all, but it’s not that bad. Don’t be embarrassed.”

Sam pinches him where his hand rests on Dean’s stomach, but it’s more for show than for any real pain. “Screw you.”

Dean snuggles down further, pushing at Sam to get more comfortable. “You already did that.”

“Yeah,” Sam agrees. “We could always do it again.”

Dean considers it, but decides a bed would be so much better. “It was pretty amazing.”

Sam gives a sleepy hum of agreement. “We may suck at talking, but that we’re good at.”

“Are we better at than or at almost dying?” Dean wonders.

“Well, we’ve had more practice with dying than with fucking,” Sam says. “Probably should remedy that.”

Hearing Sam say it, right out loud like that, brings a warm tingle of lust to Dean’s belly. He hopes next time they’ll get to have the sex without the near-death experience. It makes him laugh out loud. “Our lives are so messed up, dude.”

“No shit.” Sam slurs out.

Dean can feel Sam’s breathing getting deeper and slower. He knows that this hasn’t fixed everything between them. He still needs to earn back Sam’s trust. But it’s good. Now they can do it together. And maybe they can say with their bodies some of the things they both find so hard to say in words. He pulls Sam’s hand up, kisses the palm. “Hey, no falling asleep.”

Sam pulls Dean tighter against him without opening his eyes. “I’m not sleeping.”

“Yeah, whatever.” Dean struggles to sit up as Sam tries to pull him back down. “Stop mauling me and get dressed.”

Sam grumbles but sits up. 

Dean pulls their clothing from the various corners of the car and throws them at Sam. “Come on,” he says. “Let’s go home. We’ve got work to do.”

**Author's Note:**

> This is how it is going to happen and no one can convince me otherwise.


End file.
